Smelling Salts
by Jhalamae
Summary: "Just one night, Sasuke." Nothing registered. Not the glistening, tan, lithe, freckled demigod that tugged at my Armani. Not the dipsomanical demons that slithered into my head whispering forbidden inklings. Not the heat that crawled over my limbs, crushed my lungs, raced my heart, burned my skin alive. Nothing, until morning, when I had devoured the sun and I was starving again


"Just one night, Sasuke..."

I could only stare. Nothing registered. Not the glistening, tan, lithe, freckled, masculine demigod that tugged at my Armani. Not the dipsomaniacal demon that slithered inside my head whispering forbidden, delectable inklings. Not the foreign bedevilment that crawled through my limbs, crushed my lungs, raced my heart, and burned my skin alive. Not the animal that had ripped through my soul and devoured the sunlight that glittered on the oceans of his eyes for my own. Nothing... Until morning, when everything was gone and I was starving again. I tightened my tie and buttoned my cuffs as I watched the red numbers escalate to the eighteenth floor. Just another day.

[Yesterday...]

He could feel the cool caress of mulberry silk sheets that held him tightly against the mattress in a devastating duo with gravity. They wicked away the morning dew, whispering at his toes when he wiggled them. The light wisps of summer air flitted across his face through the wide windows of his bedroom, a hypnotic elixir amongst the lethargy that hung over his eyes. The rich smell, the piquant boldness of the dark roast lofted through his quarters as it sputtered and coughed into the pot. It trudged apathetically through this morning's brew in an astoundingly ironic yet immaculate reflection of himself. The thick lavender fetish of his launderer caked on the back of his tongue and the pungent assault of fresh cut grass stained inside his nostrils, but if he cleared his throat and swallowed he could stay a few more minutes. He could hear the smooth baritone broadcasting lowly from his alarm clock as it does every day, alternating between casual reminiscence of the latest political debates, the forecast for the week, and a series of tasteful classical pieces. The dial-up printing of the company fax grated through his ear drums and the vibration of his cell phone sent rhythmic tremors through the hard wood of his bed. He knew the sun would soon give him a flush he couldn't wash off and his inbox will be full but all that ailed him this late afternoon was the fuzzy bit of dust, almost transparent in the daylight, swirling aloofly about in the imaginary currents of his room without a care of where it lands because surely if it had then it would have found a perch within the hour. It retreated when he exhaled but flitted back and forth, taunting him, satisfying his ego and cowering from his intimidation then circling back to flutter above his nose and threaten, imp like mind you in its size, to touch him. And itch. But he favored it, he appreciated it, he respected its daring charge because it was refreshing, because he was never challenged, and also because he knew to his heart it was harmless. Just a bit of translucent dust. The prophesied, blasphemous itch would only ever be play.

"Mr. Uchiha-Sama. Forgive me, but you are considerably past your due."

And perhaps it might even feel good once scratched. But very much in the like of everything that shimmers, the ailment rose to liberty elsewhere within his grandeur abode, riding the summer breeze, far beyond the whisk of his breath.

So nothing he owned would shimmer.

He rose to his feet and brushed his hand through the grainy burgundy ripples draping heavily over his bay windows. He stepped lightly over the Malaysian rug, accounting for everything in his quarters routinely with a light tap. The nightstand. Rosewood antiques, refurbished to resonate soundly with the sepulchral tone of his chambers. The armoire, the chest. Wild Brazilian walnut with a deep cherry stain. The tall corner bookcase, the grandfather clock. Full-blooded English chestnut. The chaise, hickory mohair upholstery with a driftwood finish and a small west-indie mahogany settee. The headboard, his bed. Grand oak with a black liqueur finish lavished with intricate carvings and scrollwork, standing proudly with the finials of his ancestry, dominating the theme from the far wall. His designer sold it with a subtly sinuous motif, rich Stygian elegance, luxurious, a pile of august embroidery, meant for two. Not quite the perennial favorite, the man had said, but it made the glove fit that much more snugly.

A shame it only lives to half its potential. He strode to the middle of the room and eyed the sconces that would pair against the evening dusk tonight. No lamps, no light switches, no television. The likeness of the sun and the deep natural red it would illuminate a room in were incomparable. He looked to the hardwood floor and drew small skewed lines across the grain of the glossy, textured wood with his toe. He looked to the ceiling and followed the chevrons of the Herringbone planks. He breathed in the theme off the color of the walls, and tried to immerse himself within it like the afternoon sun as it shadowed an infracted frame of the bay windows across the room. He squared himself and closed his eyelids, letting the immersion flit like dragonflies behind them. With a slight nod he strode with the intention of melding once more into the mulberry sheets, but the furniture creaked under his burden. He felt along the engravings of the corner post of his bed, from the thick, wide base as it narrowed to the split finial atop it. He traced his thumb over the Uchiha crest that was carved into the very oak of the finial, pressing into the indentations.

"Perhaps I could close your windows?"

And skimming a nail across the sanded edges of it. His eyes ran to the wall, the calendar, the picture, those blue skies radiating above a seemingly never-ending sea. Six dollars at a convenient store in town but the color of the blue captured him unlike anything else he could own. A small fishing boat drifted at the whim of the steady deep-ocean current, clearly too far from any dock, stealing some of the light glittering along the horizon of the sea for its' sails. It was electric, it contrasted, it was the picture of serenity with the foreboding ambiance of an imminent storm. It reminded him to breathe. Tuesday.

The butler dropped his gaze in defeat, giving him a curt nod and a low bow. "Happy birthday, Mr. Uchiha-Sama."

Tuesday, but the sun wasn't any brighter, the air was tepid, and it wouldn't rain. He was positive. It is just a Tuesday.


End file.
